August in Paris
by Jason Layton
Summary: Set while Sherlock is at University. A short drabble.
1. Chapter 1

The scene is decadent and somehow deliciously debauched the young man looks about 19, too skinny for his own good. With loose dark curls, shadowlight eyes high cheekbones, and hawk face. In the tight black jeans and garcon T-shirt, he sat outside the Paris café with his bare feet resting on a spare chair. He held an un-lit, un-filtered Gitane Brune in his hand, and his other hand played through his hair.

His companion was a young woman of a similar age, her long blonde hair was tousled like the mans, her make up was expensive but badly applied, touched up from the night before without benefit of a mirror. Her legs under her red microskirt were long and smooth, and her stiletto heeled feet rested lightly on the chair the man sat upon. The sleeveless black shirt she wore was cut so low, that her breasts without the support of a bra were visible. She played with her expresso cup, and picked at her croissant.

The café faced les place Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the girl occasionally looked up towards Les Deux Magots, scowling at the mixture of tourists and left bankers. They barely spoke but when they did it was in accentless Parisian French. The man in a deep throaty baritone, and the girl in a casual careless alto, occasionally the girl would pick up her book Le Grand Meaulnes, and the man would criticize its romanticism and they would argue gently.

The tourists looked upon the scene in passing, their look screaming wild sex and bohemian living. The Left Bankers showed no such interest in this couple they had sat at this table, in similar states of undress for two weeks. It was August and Paris was full of holidaymakers, these two had taken a room above their chosen café. They had English passports, and had explained they were French Language Students, hoping to pick up some French, some sex and some culture during the long University break. The worldly couple who ran the café, who assumed they had some other reason for being in Paris, doubted their story. Especially when after two weeks of post coital breakfast dressing, they hadn't heard anything interesting at night.

The man always read La Monde; in fact he scanned the paper, then complained there was nothing in it, and would throw it down on the table in disgust. He rubbed his neck where the collar bone stuck bruisingly out of his skin, and men and woman walking past gave him appreciative glances, his look was so fashionable, he was the spirit of Bohemian French chic. His friend who received her own appreciation seemed oblivious however to his charms, and despite their liberal attitude was more interested in the occupants of the famous hotel across the way.

"Parlez-moi de cette femme" the man asked his friend suddenly.

"Elle est de plus de 30 ans se faisant passer pour plus jeune qu'elle est."

"OK, autre chose?"

"Elle est un artiste, célibataire, avec un amant, elle marche à la maison après avoir passé la nuit avec son amant."

"autre chose?"

"Non" she laughed as he shook his head.

"passablement, vous avez raté tous les points importants. Elle est espagnole, elle travaille dans une galerie d'art, elle est entreprise de travaux de faux.?

"travaux de faux?"

"peintures forgés"

"Est-elle pourquoi nous sommes ici?"

"Non! J'aimerais que ce soit."

The unseen observer picked up all points of this conversation, and smiled to himself. The Spanish woman and her nefarious paintings, would have to be reported, but he could allow himself some time to sit and watch the young couple, especially as they hadn't noticed him. He had been sent to Paris on a most boring assignment regarding UMP funding and the new French Foreign Minister, and in a rare act of defiance had immediately engaged the young man in front of him to carry out the surveillance on his part. Partially it was for the delight of watching his little brother using his powers for a better course than usual, and partially because the longer he kept the lad and his friend away from England, the longer he could keep them from the attention of his father.

* * *

Thanks to GinTsuki who suggested I wrote translations for the conversation.  
When I came to write this translation I was going to apologise for my rubbsih French, then I realised with some horror that it is in fact 17years since I last lived in France, so I will blame that rather than my younger self having no interest in learning properly.

"Tell me about this woman?"

"She is over 30 pretending to be younger than she is."

"OK, anything else?"

"She is an artist, single, with a lover. She is walking home after spending the night with her lover."

"Anything else?

"no"

"Acceptable, you missed all the important points. She is Spanish, works in an art gallery and is undertaking false works."

"Works of fiction?"

"Forged paintings"

"Is she why we are here?"

"No! I wish she was."

(The misunderstanding in translation only really works in French, but I hope you understand.)

Jas xx


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and his companion had discovered the joy of a Parisian Summer was the simple laziness of the days. Due to les vacances, the fashionistas are in St Tropez and the cools are busy viewing the Vallee des Merveilles. The French left in Paris are the broke and the corrupt, and no one cares about anything anymore. It's eerie like real life has been suspended, and Paris has been turned into a giant tourist attraction. It made it easier to view their target, he was the only person still tightly wound, and terribly furtive.

Sherlock had sat in front of the café most of the afternoon chatting to a tall Italian model that thought Sherlock was the most handsome man he'd ever seen. The model whose name improbably Iago had felt that Sherlock with his androgynous looks would make a perfect lover. He had dismissed Sherlock's friend with barely more than a nasty comment and a sour look, and she had made her excuse and gone to entertain herself.

Iago with his shaved head, poor French and tight muscular body was not Sherlock's type. Not that anyone was really Sherlock's type, not as asexual as his friend, but he found sex was mostly pointless, and it's use was only really two-fold one to remove the tension of his teenage body, and two to illicit information and favors from others. Iago wasn't clever; Iago wasn't refined in fact the way he kept running an appraising eye over his body, made Sherlock's skin crawl.

There was a visible relaxation in Sherlock's demeanor when after 3 hours he had seen his companion returning across the square. No longer in her microskirt and sleeveless shirt, she was now wearing cargo pants and spaghetti strapped top, still with her stiletto heels however. Her blonde hair was loose and fell in curled ribbons down her chest and back. She came up behind him and pointedly draped her long arms around his neck, running her hands down his flat chest and whispering into his ear. He took her hand and kissed it lightly, smiling at Iago, but making a show of following her into the café and upstairs to their room.

When they reached the relative privacy of the double room, she fell upon the bed, as Sherlock lounged in the window seat, carefully checking that Iago had left in disgust. She told him how she'd followed their mark to the hotel, and managed to catch his eye. She had been wined and dined, and offered all sorts to go to bed with him. She had stolen his phone, and arranged a rendezvous later in the evening, Sherlock texted this information to his brother, as she told him the intricacies of her day. Then while he sat thinking, she copied the phone memory and forwarded it to the elder Holmes.

After several hours, during which Sherlock had paced and his companion had dosed, they had decided to go to the restaurant. As they sat at the uncomfortably intimate table, awaiting the evening's entertainment, Sherlock began to speak.

"Avez-vous déjà pensé à ce qui se passe ensuite?"  
"Après la vie?"  
"Après l'université"  
"Je ne sais pas? Je suppose que je vais devoir trouver un emploi. "  
"Oh Dull"  
"Pensez-vous que vous aurez juste vivre votre argent pères?"  
"Non, j'ai pensé a taillé une brèche à travers l'Europe. Se faisant passer pour Lord Byron. "  
"Vous plaisantez, bien sûr, vous pouvez à peine creusa une brèche dans Cambridge."  
"Dull, vous ne semblent jamais avoir de difficulté, les dépenses de toutes ces nuits avec Victor Trevor."  
"Ne pas être grossier".  
"Pensez-vous que nous pourrions faire une carrière de le faire?"  
"Faire le sale boulot de Mycroft?"  
"la résolution de crimes Consulting Detective. Il a un anneau de le faire croyez-vous pas?"

She never heard his reply, because as she was talking their target had walked in, and Sherlock had pressed his companion deeper into the corner of the restaurant. They watched in silence as the Minister took his seat, and looked around for his invited guest. Their dinner arrived and they continued to watch the man in silence, he was old, very old to a couple of teens and as he sat sipping his champagne his hands shook and he played with his whitening hair. The sniggered at their own cleverness, setting up a meeting, setting up their trap, unaware that as they waited for the cavalry, waited for their mark to be arrested, someone watched them. Someone who was much more dangerous to them than their juvenile minds could comprehend.

* * *

"Have you ever thought about what happens next?"  
"After Life?"  
"After University"  
"I don't know? I guess I'll have to find a job. "  
"Oh Dull"  
"Do you think you will just live off your fathers money?"  
"No, I thought I would cut a swath through Europe. Pretending to be Lord Byron."  
"You're joking of course, you can just about cut a swath through Cambridge."  
"Dull, you never seem to have difficulty, spending all those nights with Victor Trevor."  
"Don't be crude "  
"Do you think we could make a career of it?"  
"Doing Mycroft's dirty work?"  
"Solving crimes Consulting Detective's . It had a ring to it don't you think?"


End file.
